


Falco Peregrinus

by Waistcoat35



Series: From The Oyster To The Eagle [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Birdwatching, Cuddling & Snuggling, Existential Crisis, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Seaside, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Wildlife, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 17:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20049607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waistcoat35/pseuds/Waistcoat35
Summary: After six thousand years of turmoil and a failed armageddon, Crowley moves to the South Downs, and finds that his sense of self appears to have gotten lost in the Tesco Self-Service queue. That is to say, his world has warped more over a few months than in the last few millennia, and he would rather like a sit down.





	Falco Peregrinus

**Author's Note:**

> “To be recognised and accepted by a peregrine you must wear the same clothes, travel by the same way, perform actions in the same order. Like all birds, it fears the unpredictable. Enter and leave the same fields at the same time each day, soothe the hawk from its wildness by a ritual of behaviour as invariable as its own. Hood the glare of the eyes, hide the white tremor of the hands, shade the stark reflecting face, assume the stillness of a tree.” J. A. Baker, The Peregrine

It is a crisp day in October, and the boxes are sitting safely in the rooms of the cottage, comfortably sagging under their own weight after so long being filled with books and bundled into vans and rattled around all over the countryside. Aziraphale hadn’t been entirely pleased at the prospect of his precious belongings being treated in such a way, but the only alternatives were to place them in storage or miracle them there – and though both options are just as unthinkable as one another, it is the latter that is the more worrisome, because big miracles seldom go unnoticed. As Crowley had said, voice laced with desperation as tea might be laced with poison, was the point of moving not to flee so that they couldn’t be found? (Although it might be fruitless, as he believes they could be tracked down easily enough if Heaven or Hell wanted to bother, it’s the principle of the thing that matters – a feeling of security that cannot enter even halfway into his mind outside of the circle of Aziraphale’s arms.)

He wishes, now, that he hadn’t said it, those few weeks ago when they were – he wants to call it bickering but it was more like bargaining, _pleading_ with one another, with themselves – for Aziraphale’s face had changed slightly, then, its well-built softness looking as though his expression were being stretched just a little too thin. _“Is that the only reason that you think we should move?” _he had asked, voice tremulous in a way that suggested he ought to perhaps be shuffling in place out of discomfort or distraction, were he not frozen in place in his uncertainty. It was an uncertainty that Crowley has felt perhaps every day of his terribly long, relatively short life, and he had noted it in Aziraphale with a sickly mix of vindication – _now, now you know what it feels like, what it felt like, all those years hovering in place for you while you hemmed and hawed over whether or not you should be allowed to want me_ – and horror, because Aziraphale didn’t deserve that feeling, ought never to have had to feel it, and least of all because of Crowley’s own doing.

He had apologised, of course – it shouldn’t come so naturally to a demon, but he has gone somewhat native after all – had inched closer as though unsure himself of whether his attempts to fix it would be welcomed, had embraced and been embraced in turn and choked on every word in his head, every word in his mouth, every word trickling down his throat like bitter river water as he tried to string the words together in the right order like tiny little beads with a too-large needle, tried to explain all the infinite reasons why this was all he could want, all he had ever wanted, all he had ever needed and yet never quite thought he deserved. Aziraphale had smiled, a relieved, almost-watery thing, and he had attempted to do it back, but ever since he has felt somewhat unmoored, as if they are watching one another with a campfire between them rather than huddled together watching the flames.

Now he walks, chalk steadily thumping beneath his feet. The slight rocking could be due to the unevenness of the path, but to Crowley it feels like he is feeling the chalk, feeling the millennia of creatures who have lived and died and calcified, the ghosts of their pulses thrumming below, embedded in the cliffs.

He leaves a note before he goes, so that Aziraphale won’t worry, and he hates that it’s a thing he must do, must disclose his location and have it known, let himself be pinpointed like a moth on a corkboard, but he would hate _himself _all the more if he let his angel worry. Simultaneously, running parallel to this feeling of unrest and irritability, he understands, perhaps, the need for reassurance more than ever before.

Things are…_hard_, at the moment. He’s glad to have moved, glad to have gone with Aziraphale – in all truth, he doesn’t think he could’ve stayed in the city and gone on existing without him – but when you’ve lived in one place for centuries, well. (Centuries may seem short on their own, but several of them make up a long time to live in one place for somebody who usually so embraces change.) London’s rivers run through his bloodstream by now, its streets mapped by the way that the veins bramble across the crackled, tissue paper skin of his wrists. Leaving permanently, living somewhere entirely new and entirely different, it feels as though those ingrained parts of him have been siphoned out and not replaced with anything. He had talked about it, of course, with Aziraphale. Had it slowly eased out of him, bit by bit, because Aziraphale had noticed him paying extra attention to every place they went before the move, drinking everything in as if he would never see any of it again.

_“I’m sorry,”_ he had said, voice too small and too tight and making him wish he could shed it as his snake form sheds its skin, _“it’s a lot, a lot to leave and a lot to lose, and I want to go with you, I think I might die if I didn’t, but – it’s just –“_ and Aziraphale, somehow, had understood. He had _understood_.

_“It’s just that you have lived here for over two hundred years, you know the baristas and the bartenders and the bars, you know the museums and the markets and the little out-of-the-way bistros, you know where to find the best of everything and how to avoid the worst of anything else, you know our history here and the history of the people and you’ve known most of the business-owners’ families for the last six generations, and it feels as though a place can encode itself into your DNA. Crowley, I would never expect you to let all of that go so easily, because that isn’t who you are. You were made to care about things, you’ve kept doing that however much you were told - however much you told yourself - that you weren’t meant to.” With that, Aziraphale had wiped away the tears beading in the corners of his eyes before he himself had even felt that they were there, and he had chuckled warmly, and leaned his head towards Crowley’s until their noses almost brushed. _

_“Isn’t it delightfully human, my dear, to cherish and value and cling? Is that not just what we always wanted to do, deep down, wanted to be?” _A_nd he had nodded, and croaked out something that may have been a yes or may have been a “sure” or may have been a saltwater-stained declaration of love, but he can’t tell which now because he’d been a little too worked up to know what was coming out of his mouth. _

Aziraphale had offered him time, perhaps the same precious bits of it that he had given to Aziraphale over the years, but he had strengthened his resolve and steeled his tremoring frame and said that no, October was fine, best to go before the Christmas rush means we can’t get hold of things for the house, before the snow piles up and the van can’t get there.

He doesn’t regret that, no. He often finds that he can’t regret things where Aziraphale is concerned. He appreciates it, that Aziraphale had offered, though. In a world where humans are the only other things that have come close to understanding him, it’s nice to find that Aziraphale does even more so, even more than Crowley originally thought he did.

The sea makes a sound like steam from an iron down on the beach, the swash and the backwash making roiling blankets of white foam lacing the silver-teal of the waves themselves, and it lulls the frayed parts of him as he carries on up the path. He had warned the angel that he might be like this for a bit, that there was nothing much to be done about it – had said it as if it were a last warning, a way to make sure Aziraphale finally understood just what he was getting into, no false advertising involved. He had simply held Crowley’s face, thumbing one cheekbone, and making that face at him, that face that is his ultimate weakness, because the trouble with Crowley is that he has allergies to any kind of tenderness or affection – they must be allergies, when he gets too much of those things his eyes go all runny, see?

_“My dear. My dearest. My darling.” He had choked then, something claggy and bitter in his throat, and Aziraphale had shushed him gently, “If you think that you’re going to change my mind, to make me stop wanting you – perhaps I overestimated what I thought was profound intelligence.” He had huffed out a weak laugh. “I much prefer your flaws to anybody else’s perfections.” And oh, that had sent his knees a bit weak, because now Aziraphale was quoting the sweet nothings of literature at him._

_“Emily Bronte?”_

_“Anne, and I know that you know it.” Somehow Aziraphale had figured out that he’d read the book, despite every argument he attempted to make to the contrary. It had been a bit of a slog, but he’d been snowed in at the time, and needed something to do while he practically clung to the fireplace. It was worth it, too – because he’d_ _daydreamed about those words, about having them spoken to him, until they were._

It’s a lot, that’s all. Leaving London, unpacking, trying to settle into some form of routine, all the while trying to cope with the slightly terrifying knowledge that Aziraphale loves him, _Aziraphale _loves _him_, his angel is _in love with him_.

(_“Quite madly, in fact,” _he had said.)

He doesn’t know whether to feel safe or not, because it’s all new and big and confusing but that means it will be the same to anybody who comes after them. And really, he definitely _should_ feel safe, because Aziraphale is here, and he’s livid with himself for not feeling safe on that very principle alone, but instincts are instincts and they cannot be rewritten.

He has managed to get quite far down the path by now, and a little ways ahead there is a small, jagged point looking out over the sea. It gives a good view of the next clifftops, which curve around a little and eventually tilt higher than the current stretch of the path, and he lets the clumps of Dyer’s Rocket and hawk’s beard, now absent of flowers, brush against the backs of his knees as he slows and picks his way to the edge, transfixed. There’s a breeze blowing, blustery and bristled and thistled, and it’s ironic that nothing that comes from the sea is soft but it still wears down everything’s corners. He puts his hands in his pockets, presses his elbows tightly to his sides as if trying to make his arms meld into the rest of him. He will not admit to himself that it is cold.

His thoughts are swiftly sliced through by a piercing, inhuman shriek, and he watches as the source of the sound flies in. The call is familiar, but distance and wind make it sound distorted, as though he is hearing an echo from years past, far too old for the small bird making it. It’s a Peregrine – a tiercel, he thinks, because it’s small for its type, really. He can’t be certain though – there’s no mate to compare it to. It’s a solitary bird.

All alone, up on the cliffs.

As rain begins to spatter down, he finds it again after losing sight of it momentarily against the backdrop of the rocks. It’s on a ledge sheltered from the rain, though unfortunately the wind still blows through, and it clutches at the edge of the overhang for dear life, creamy breast feathers speckled like ink spots on silk. The feathering before its legs is straggly and flutters with the gale, as if it is wearing a skirt it is trying to hold down with a disgruntled expression, and Crowley honestly almost laughs. It is the first time in a little while that he’s felt physically capable of doing so.

Because there’s a little fleck of familiarity here. Something for him to hold on to that won’t be ripped out of his hand like a feather in a storm. He knows these birds, he knows them well, knows the pairs in London and which buildings they nest on. He’s got them folded away on a mental map, the ones on the Tate, the Houses of Parliament, the Battersea Power Station – it goes on and on. He’s always had a secret fondness for the birds, pored over the webcams on his phone. (Or trolling on facebook, as far as Aziraphale knows. Actually, he probably doesn’t – he still hasn’t gotten an account on it. Doesn’t like that funny little goblin man who runs it – looks like his mouth is stapled into one position, apparently. Crowley always simply nods, lips pursed to keep himself from smirking.)

Something, ever so strangely, has lightened its hold in his chest.

Typical. Him. Getting soppy over a bloody bird.

It’s not right, he tells himself, for a demon to –

And that’s when he realises part of what really feels so wrong. It doesn’t entirely matter, anymore, if he does something unbecoming of a demon. If he stops caring about being tracked down and watched. Because that’s all over.

_We’re on our own side now, angel._

He can let Aziraphale jokingly drape a daisy chain across his shoulders. He can read the newspaper and feel pleased about the success stories without having to justify it with an evil plan. He could frolic in the meadows, if he wanted to badly enough. He can stay here and watch this bird all bloody night.

Best not to, though. It’s getting late now, after all, and Aziraphale will wonder where he’s got to. He probably already does.

He looks back up at the cliff, almost squinting at the starkness of the now-cloudy sky, and gives the bird a salute, because he feels like it’s earned it.

* * *

When he gets back, he does so with feet sore from the roughness of the path and a jacket soaked with far too much cold rainwater for a cold-blooded creature. Aziraphale looks up as he comes in, easing up from his position sat in front of the fire. Evidently he has not unpacked more than a book or two, resting on the arm of the chair they had bought for the house. Later, he will tell Crowley that it is something he thought ought to be done together, two birds building a nest in the middle of October. But now he approaches, slowly but not cautiously, not awaiting an explosion, because a lit fuse cannot burn once it has been rained on. He helps to peel off the sopping jacket, and he will fuss – not so much as to crowd, but enough that Crowley feels wanted, feels missed. Crowley gets the impression that such a thing was rather the point.

He’s ushered over to the chair, where he sits down carefully lest he knock the books off the arm, and a fluffy white towel smelling vaguely of cinnamon is ruffled over his hair. He tilts his head a little under the slight force, at just such an angle that he can look up at the angel, eyes twinkling slightly with amusement. He briefly remembers that Aziraphale cannot see his eyes – but then he also wonders when exactly he had taken off his glasses and put them on the other arm of the chair. How strange, that he can unwind and not even know he is doing it. He unwinds somewhat like a ball python uncoils – bit by bit, and then all at once.

Once his hair is dry, he shakes his head a bit, to get the longer strands out of his eyes. The rain has made it all flop forwards, and he is attempting to set it to rights when Aziraphale hovers near the free space. He shifts up so that the other can sit down as well, and if he leaves an inch of space where Aziraphale would have left a mile, well.

Nobody’s saying anything about it.

They sit for a while, and talk about things. Crowley talks a little - only a little, mind you, and that is _all_ \- about how he’s feeling. He talks about the cliff and the rain and the note – he had hesitated on voicing his turmoil about the note, but he’s always been one to poke a bear with a stick when he knows he shouldn’t, and a small indignant part of himself reminds him that he’s been tamping down his feelings to give Aziraphale’s more room for a good few thousand years, and the angel _had_ asked that he work on that. He talks about the note, and Aziraphale just carries on smiling that gentle, encouraging smile, and the hand on his shoulder has migrated to the back of his neck. The tenderness makes him hiss when he speaks, which makes Aziraphale smile more, and Crowley finally tells him about the tiercel.

“That’s lovely, my dear.”

“_Angel_.”

“What? I do believe that lovely is a _six_ letter word, not four.”

He shakes his head. Sly bastard that his angel is.

“Really, Crowley, I really do mean it. I’m so very glad that something familiar made you feel less homesick.” He shakes his head from where he’s slowly tilted into Aziraphale’s shoulder. He’s _warm_, that’s all.

“M’not homesick.”

“Really, Crowley, you don’t need to hide anything from me. I – I want you to know that. I hope you already did.” He looks up a bit then, eyes reflective in a way he only manages when he’s being completely sincere.

“I do, and I’m not. Not in the way you’re thinking.”  
“Oh?” The stroking of his neck continues, and his head sinks back down with a little _mmph_ sound that starts off lilted and crackles at the end.

“If I was homesick, Aziraphale, it wouldn’t be for London. I miss it, yeah. But that’s not where I’m homesick for.” The stroking has turned to rubbing at the back of his scalp, and Aziraphale really should know that it’s not the done thing if he wants to have a coherent conversation with Crowley. 

“Oh?”

“I wasn’t homesick, because home was only a few seconds away.”

Aziraphale makes a little noise that sounds like surprise being used at a masquerade ball by delighted. It’s rather wonderful.

“It takes a but longer than that to walk back from where you were to the house, dear.”

He snuggles further into the crook of Aziraphale’s shoulder and neck. “Know that. But a few seconds is how long it’d take for you to get there if I needed you.” The gentle hand stops and rests there for a minute, but then it’s on his right shoulder and pulling him into Aziraphale’s chest.

“Oh, _Crowley_.”

“None of that, oi,” he attempts to grimace. Judging from the smile he can feel as Aziraphale drops his face to the top of Crowley’s head, from the light kiss pressed there before it is artfully ruffled by a soft hand, it doesn’t work. Like, at all.

They have soup for supper, Crowley lapping it up with a snake tongue if only to see the tiny grin it produces from the angel, and afterwards they continue what has been something of a nightly ritual since the not-end of the world. Soft eyes meet his own, and he knows what’s coming.

“I believe it’s your turn to pick the book, my dear.”

He knows which one, had known before he even thought about it properly, and as he gets up and pads over to the boxes (he would say he slinks, but his edges have been too softened for it to be anything other than padding, and oh, maybe Aziraphale and the sea have something in common,) he thinks about how lucky he is, right now. He still feels lost – in himself, in the house, in the wide, wide sea he’s going to be looking over every day – but he knows that he will be quickly found, if he needs it. That if he calls for help – even an unspoken call – Aziraphale will find his loose ends and ravel them back up into a cosy ball. A ball he could knit one of his jumpers with, maybe. Crowley chuckles at his own nonsense.

It is easy to find, in the end. Aziraphale had ordered the boxes by genre- but one book has many faces, and Crowley knows he will forget. So he has changed the order, just a little, according to things as complicated as the alignment of the stars and the mating habits of horseshoe crabs and just _when_ the village chippy is actually open – but to sum it up more generally, the books are boxed according to what will spark Aziraphale’s interest first, what he will immediately want to read about. It had been, in part, careful calculation, but mostly Crowley will look at a book and just _know_.

He doesn’t think that such an instinct comes from his reptilian side.

He slips the slim volume from its trappings, careful about jostling corners, and gently brushes off the thin, well-loved cardstock of the cover. He has no doubt that Aziraphale will have the book himself – 1967 first edition, signed, most likely. But apart from the few house things and the plants Crowley brought with him, little remains of what had made up his sense of himself over the years, everything that had built what he was to people and to himself and – maybe to Aziraphale.

And so he chooses his own copy of the book, the slightly worn 50th anniversary edition acquired from his nearest Waterstones, because if there is anything that is himself it is that book. He hasn’t explained fully, but he thinks Aziraphale understands somewhat, because if anything he looks even softer upon being handed the book, Crowley’s gaze flickered downwards as if in stubbornness but all too clearly in shyness. The angel pats his thigh, once, twice, and it is all the signal Crowley needs to nestle into his warm bulk and let the familiar words wash over him.

_“…soothe the hawk from its wildness by a ritual of behaviour as invariable as its own. Hood the glare of the eyes, hide the white tremor of the hands…”_

He feels himself drifting as if on a river, the river that the words wind, and once again the comfort of it all lets him finally surrender to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a new thing I'm trying, the book is J.A Baker's The Peregrine, please check it out!! It's literally 5am atm so I'll add more to these notes and look over any errors when I'm less tired.


End file.
